The Final Night
by Gemenied
Summary: It was always his greatest fear that this moment would come and now that it is there, he has no choice but to do what needs to be done.


**Title**: The Final Night

**Rating**: T+

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, but I don't think anybody can demand anything either.

**Summary**: It was always his greatest fear that this moment would come and now that it is there, he has no choice but to do what needs to be done.

**A/N**: I've got to admit that this is a little different from what I usually do, but I think it turned out fairly well. Hope, you think so too. Many, many thanks go to ShadowSamurai83 for the neverending patience with my continuing mistakes and the constant encouragement. This is my 50th story here, so there's been a lot of work.

Enjoy.

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**The Final Night**

They've been friends forever, it seems, which is something he relishes above everything. It's the one thing which allows him to do what he does, gives him the strength to actually do it. She doesn't know the rest of it, of his feelings for her, which is about the only thing that helps him go on.

He's never been a weak man, which forms the base of their friendship - and this arrangement. A weak man couldn't do this. Or maybe only a weak man can. He is weak for her. Too weak for his own good. He knows that and sometimes he thinks that she knows it too and uses it to her advantage.

The thought never sticks, because in his mind there is not a malicious cell in her body. There are people who think differently - not many, because he's only ever told two - but he dismisses their questions and their concern. He knows what they think, but he doesn't want to.

She's perfect in his eyes, always has been. Her obliviousness to her own allure is part of her attractiveness, along with the sharp mind, the relentless humour and caring personality. She's not an abusive creature, can't be. So, he concludes, it must be that she is unaware of the pain she causes him.

He is the sole expert on how her skin tastes, how it feels, how it looks when she so far gone that she throws her head back in abandon. It helps that only he knows what curves and hollows and plains she's hiding under her clothes. It helps that no other man knows anything about what makes her come undone.

It's a whole lot and it helps a whole lot. But it doesn't help him.

They've been doing it for years. Inconsistently. At times he just shows up at her doorstep, hoping that she's got the time. She smiles then and pulls him into the house. She doesn't ask questions about the hows and whys and he's grateful for it. Much more often, though, it's her who just shows up at his door. Often late in the night, quite regularly smelling of pub or restaurant or even the office. She isn't drunk, though he quickly gauges that there's been a glass or several of wine involved.

Over the years he has learned to read the pattern, even constructed a set of reasons and events preceding her arrival. It's always the same and over time he's learned to digest just how bad it is this time. Her smile never reaches her eyes, but he's used to that. It's how she responds, how aggressive she is that tells him.

He knows she hurts, it hurts him too, more than she will ever know. It also hurts that he'll never be able to take away the pain. She won't allow it. She doesn't even stop to consider.

He has raged against those facts, more than once, alone in his house, in the dead of the night when the bed was cold and lonely. He's plotted hundreds of ways to let her know, to convince her that it's him and him alone who can and will make her smile forever. But in their day-to-day interactions there's never space for broaching the subject, and during their nightly trysts he doesn't dare.

She doesn't come to talk or to cry, though there are tears slipping over her cheeks often enough. She comes for one thing only and that is to relieve her basest needs. Get rid of the tension, purge herself of her yearning.

More than once she has cried the wrong name. If he weren't so far gone by then...

He can't complain; in addition to the privilege of her in his bed, it's also a real pleasure. The sex is good, passionate, satisfying. Except on an emotional level. Not for him and not for her either.

It never was, but that has never been the point of their arrangement. The offer was his, jokingly made on a night when they both had had too much to drink; she'd moaned about her painful talent to always pick the wrong one and thus better going without. In a flippant reply he'd offered, never expecting her to even consider it.

But she had and here they are, his greatest pain and his greatest joy, all rolled into one woman, in his arms.

He loves her, he knows it with the same certainty that he breathes.

But that's where it ends.

Tonight is different from the other nights, he can feel it, though he isn't sure whether he has made the decision or she has come with the intention to do this one final time. In the course of their relationship they've never spoken directly about this, and in all honesty, he's too scared to mention it.

If it's only in his head, how much could he destroy if he puts it out in the open?

He's met the other man - the current one. They've been doing this for a lot longer than she's known the other and he's seen a few come and go, one way or the other. This one's persistent and not nearly as blind as he's always thought.

They've met, two men supposedly meeting on neutral ground. The only neutrality involved, though, was the place - not his turf, not the other's either - but that's where it ended. They were civil, of course, as befits two men in responsible positions, wearing expensive designer suits. There were no shouts, no disparaging remarks or gestures, no tussles outside the pub. The latter is a shame, really, because they both knew that they'd have liked it better.

But it would have been a disservice to their agendas and therefore, though grudgingly, they refrained.

It gives him no little pleasure to know that the other man, the rival, is unsettled. _He_ had seen them together one evening, last week, when they did the friendship thing. The part without the benefits. Just two friends going out and having a meal together. He doesn't remember exactly, but it's possible that their secret intimacy showed in the way they moved and touched.

She was oblivious, of course; it was just her natural warmth and her ability to be personable. He knows there wasn't more to it, but the other man didn't.

The advantage was small, but it was there, and he was willing to exploit it. There isn't much going for him otherwise. What she shares with the other completely surpasses what they know together. Friendship and casual tumbles between the sheets come short in comparison to the emotional and intellectual connection she shares with _him_.

In addition, the other man is very different from himself, much more energetic, a little younger too. _He_'s also better looking, if you are into the type. And she is...

No, she's not that shallow, and that's the problem. What she feels for the other man, what makes her seek out another's bed, is the fact that she loves _him_. She loves _him_, plain, simple and irrevocable. He knows how deeply she loves, how passionately, how hopelessly.

It's why she comes to him, to purge herself of the pain from a love that's not reciprocated.

But meeting his rival he now knows, as painful as it is, that she's wrong. The other man might be slow on the uptake, it might have taken _him_ years to see what's in front of _his_ eyes, or at least realizing it, but there are feelings for her in _him_.

In fact, _he_ loves her too. Quite possibly with the same passion, the same devotion and the same perceived hopelessness as she loves _him_.

And one day _he_ might even say it out loud, to her face.

_He_ might shout it and she might shout her reciprocation back, but the words and the feelings - the love - will be on the table between them.

That's when he becomes surplus, superfluous.

The time has probably already come. It was in the way she touched him tonight, or better, how he perceived her touching him. She's possibly not aware of it yet, but she's saying goodbye to him, to her friend with benefits. It's possible that he says goodbye tonight to avoid being given the push. She'll never say it out loud, never end it officially. She'll just stop coming by in the dead of the night, will no longer be available when he drops in on her. Or worse, her front door will be opened by _him_.

The other man. The lucky bastard who has a reputation to run away from, but whom she loves nonetheless. Or because of it.

It's their final night and he has to end it now.

She's deeply asleep in her bed. A first. Never when she silently requested the benefit, have they done it in her bed. She always came to him, never asked him to come to her.

It's their final night. If nothing else, this fact tells him so. She's closing the door to one part of her life, making room for another.

She looks peaceful in her sleep, relaxed, and she smiles.

He doesn't want to imagine what or whom she's dreaming of. It's too painful.

Carefully he gets up from the bed, trying to ensure she doesn't wake. There's nothing they can discuss, nothing he can or she will say. It's his turn to leave, and his turn to stay away.

He knows he shouldn't, but he can't resist leaning down and brushing a kiss against her bare shoulder. Her skin is warm and soft and sweet. Fragrant against the sheets. He'll take that scent with him for eternity, never able to forget it.

The thought twists like a knife in his gut, but it's only the pain in his heart.

"Good night, Grace," he whispers as he quietly leaves the room.

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Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


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